


Punishment and pleasure

by greenstone



Series: Spanking Sherlock [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Established Relationship, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Non-Consensual Spanking, Punishment, Rimming, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 08:22:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1851166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenstone/pseuds/greenstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock steals and uses Mycroft's high-security pass <em>again</em> shortly after the Hounds of Baskerville case, Mycroft decides it's time his wayward brother had a taste of old-fashioned discipline. At least Sherlock has John to help lick his wounds (literally!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Mycroft. What a pleasant surprise! Oh hang on, no, what am I saying? How utterly dull and predictable to see you."

Mycroft stood in the doorway to flat 221B, looking at his brother, who was lounging on the sofa in his silk dressing gown and staring disinterestedly at the ceiling. After a few moments of silence Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat up, leant over to pick up a credit card in a plastic casing from the nearby coffee table and tossed it carelessly across to Mycroft. The latter caught it with one hand without taking his gaze off Sherlock.

Seconds passed, during which Sherlock's eyes flickered over Mycroft's perfectly pressed suit, his gleaming dress shoes and the umbrella over his arm (why did he always insist on carrying an umbrella, whatever the weather? Pompous idiot), before returning to his face to find that Mycroft's gaze had not shifted.

He met his brother's eyes. "Anytime you want to leave..." he said pointedly, waving his fingers in a gesture of dismissal as he slumped back into the sofa with a grumpy expression. "You've got what you came for - knew you'd come barging round here as soon as you finally twigged I'd borrowed the pass again - so you can run along now and get back to your no doubt hectic schedule. Politicians aren't going to manipulate themselves."

Mycroft did not move and still said nothing.

Sherlock sighed theatrically. "Oh, must we do this? It's so _boring_. Fine: you're angry. You feel the need to let me know you're angry. Probably also to inform me that I'm a disappointment and that I should be ashamed of myself. All no doubt expressed in a speech long-winded and dreary enough to - "

Sherlock broke off abruptly as Mycroft crossed the floor to the sofa in three large strides until he was towering over him and shouted, the noise frighteningly sudden and loud in the quiet flat, "SHUT UP, SHERLOCK!"

There was silence just for a moment, while Mycroft stood, breathing heavily, and Sherlock made a conscious effort to close his mouth, which had fallen slightly open in a rare moment of surprise. But almost immediately, Mycroft's usual smooth front was back. He stood looking down at Sherlock, cold and contained.

"You are selfish, obnoxious and disrespectful. You take the assistance of those around you for granted and never consider that you might have a debt to repay. You flagrantly abuse trust and generosity. You are a child - too self-absorbed to consider that anyone else's needs may also be of importance, too self-important to recognise that others may have good grounds for the limits they seek to impose on your outrageous activities, too reckless to care that your actions may have damaging consequences. You are a child, and I am going to show you what happens to a child who continually misbehaves. Stand up."

Sherlock surveyed Mycroft's face, which had grown taut and sour with the effort of holding back his anger. Then his eyes slid shiftily off Mycroft, and he lounged back into the cushions, a tiny smirk flickering around his lips for just a second.

"Stand up, Sherlock." Mycroft's voice was pure ice now. Sherlock couldn't quite manage to look him in the eye, but nevertheless continued to lean back, arms folded across his chest, knees spread casually apart.

"Stand UP!" Mycroft barked, and again the sudden bellow seemed to reverberate around the living room, the air shaking in surprise.

Slowly, Sherlock stood up.

"That's better," said Mycroft softly. "Now, let's see..."

He moved so fast, Sherlock had no opportunity to resist. Mycroft was ordinarily so calm and measured in his movements that when he moved at speed it was as astonishingly unexpected as the sudden outbursts of fury which occasionally broke through his silky smooth facade.

Sherlock knew only too well what Mycroft was capable of and should have been better prepared for it, but his brain was working out Mycroft's moves a split-second too slowly, so that at each step he reacted too late to throw his brother off.

Mycroft twisted Sherlock's right arm up behind his back, brought his left arm round to join it, and pinned Sherlock's wrists together in one pincer-like grip. Then he sat down on the sofa that Sherlock had just reluctantly vacated, dragging Sherlock down with him so that he was lying on his front across Mycroft's lap, Sherlock's head against the back of the sofa and his body angled in under Mycroft's left arm. Mycroft's left hand never loosened its grip on Sherlock's wrists, and he wedged his left elbow onto Sherlock's back, pinning him down. Sherlock's arse was propped up over Mycroft's right knee, his legs falling either side of Mycroft's right leg. A moment before Sherlock could use his legs to kick out, Mycroft had trapped the right one with his own left. Sherlock's left leg remained free, but he could get no leverage with it on the ground from this position. He assessed his situation for a second, then made an almighty effort to force himself up off Mycroft's lap. He barely moved an inch. He tried again. Nothing.

"Yes," murmured Mycroft above him, sounding smug (but then didn't he always sound smug? Except when he shouted. Only then did you penetrate the insufferable _smugness_ ). "You'll see I did give a little bit of thought to how to ensure your, shall we say, _co-operation_ with your chastisement."

Sherlock made a growling noise in the back of his throat. His brain was racing, frenziedly scanning the situation for an escape.

"The trouble is, little brother, you know me too well." Mycroft sounded amused now. "You know me, and I know you. There's nothing new to discover. You're not going to suddenly deduce, from the height of the turn-ups on my trousers or the way I tie my shoes, some new piece of information about me which gives you the key to escape. Between us, it's all been done before. No, this time, the mighty Sherlock Holmes is simply going to have to take the consequences of his actions for once."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Yet he had to admit that Mycroft was right: he couldn't find any way out. If only he could distract Mycroft for a moment, enough to make him loosen his grip on Sherlock's wrists and his pressure on Sherlock's back...but Mycroft was no fool. He knew that Sherlock's mind would be working through the options right now, and he would be ready for any attempts. He -

"Ow!" The exclamation escaped Sherlock's lips involuntarily, as Mycroft dealt a sharp slap to his arse. The material of his dressing gown was sheer, offering no protection, and the slap stung. Mycroft gave Sherlock another smack, and this time, thankfully, Sherlock was able to avoid reacting vocally to the blow, though he was now clear that this must stop immediately. 

"Let me go right this minute!" he demanded, in his most authoritative voice. 

Mycroft simply spanked him again.

"MYCROFT! STOP IT AND LET ME GO!" yelled Sherlock, once more trying with all his might to force himself up from Mycroft's lap, but to no avail. Mycroft was having no trouble at all holding him still.

"I'm afraid I must decline, little brother," replied Mycroft, and Sherlock could hear his tight, satisfied smile in his voice. Mycroft spanked him again, and this time Sherlock remained silent, only bending his head a little. He might not have found a way to escape Mycroft's hold, but that didn't mean he was about to give Mycroft the satisfaction of wailing like a baby.

Mycroft soon had a steady rhythm going. The spanking stung more than seemed reasonable, and it took significant effort on Sherlock's part not to make any noise as Mycroft's hand bounced enthusiastically against the round cheeks of his bottom.

Finally, he stopped. Sherlock lay there a moment, trying to get his breathing under control and let the flush fade from his face, then made to get up. Mycroft chuckled softly. "Oh no, Sherlock. Oh dear no. No, no, no. Obnoxious little brats don't get away with a gentle pat on the bottom over their pyjamas. No, obnoxious little brats get their trousers pulled down and receive a good old-fashioned bare-bottom spanking. And since you are the most obnoxious and bratty person I have ever known in my life, that is exactly what you will be getting."

There was a pause as he considered Sherlock's upturned arse contemplatively. "Of course," he murmured, "you've been kind enough not to bother with the trousers, which saves me some trouble."

Mycroft reached out, took hold of the hem of the blue silk dressing gown and drew it slowly up to Sherlock's waist. Sherlock felt his face flush hot again as his bottom was bared to Mycroft's view. He snarled and twisted his wrists against Mycroft's grip, but it only made them hurt. Mycroft didn't look it, but he was an extremely strong man - not a match for Sherlock these days under usual circumstances, thanks to all the hours spent sitting behind a desk and his distaste for legwork, but still possessed of a vice-like grip and an excellent understanding of how to maneouvre an opponent into submission. Just as nobody who saw Sherlock's skinny, lanky frame ever imagined him be such a powerful, adept fighter, nobody looking at Mycroft's soft edges and lethargic movements ever suspected that he could make such a formidable physical opponent.

"Why am I punishing you, Sherlock?" asked Mycroft. 

Sherlock said nothing.

Mycroft slapped his arse. A red mark showed against the already pink skin. Sherlock winced and glared so furiously at the seat cushions that it was a miracle they didn't spontaneously burst into flame.

"Why am I punishing you, Sherlock?" repeated Mycroft, calmly.

Sherlock hesitated just a second before spitting, viciously, "Because you’re a sadistic, power-mad moron who thinks because he’s seven years older than me, that gives him the right to act like my father. Who, by the way, was also a sadistic, power-mad moron."

He had barely got the words out of his mouth before Mycroft was smacking him, furious again now, letting his open hand whip across Sherlock’s buttocks with a sound like a crack accompanying each blow. Sherlock gasped and to his horror felt tears spring up in his eyes.

"You - will - NOT - speak that way - about our father!" snapped Mycroft, punctuating his words with his smacks.

Sherlock struggled, squirming over Mycroft’s knee in an unsuccessful attempt to escape the blows that were raining down on his bottom. "Okay. OKAY!" he gasped, eyes watering and face red with exertion. "I didn’t mean it. I take it back."

Mycroft stopped spanking him. "Good. At last, we’re making a little bit of progress. So, for the third time of asking, why am I punishing you, Sherlock?" He rested his hand warningly against Sherlock’s hot skin.

Sherlock gave in. "Because I stole your all-access pass. Broke into a secret, high-security prison facility. Interrogated a prisoner, Rhodes. Knocked out a security guard. Actually, John knocked out the security guard. He’s quite good at that sort of thing."

"Ah yes," said Mycroft, as if in the middle of a casual conversation. "Where is Dr Watson currently?"

Sherlock scowled into the sofa cushions. "Don’t pretend you don’t already know," he snapped. "No doubt you had him picked up by one of your people - " he said the word with cutting disdain - "to keep him out of the way while you came here."

"Well," replied Mycroft mildly, "would you have preferred that he were present to witness this little episode? Of course, who knows when he might arrive home; any moment now, possibly..." The threat was made in silky tones but Sherlock felt hot all over at the idea. John, coming in through the door just a few metres away, to see him, Sherlock, face down over Mycroft’s lap, his reddened arse stuck up in the air. Oh God. Please don’t let him come.

"Anyway," continued Mycroft. "We were discussing your misdemeanours. While all of those actions you have described are indeed unacceptable, and show exactly the kind of arrogance and disregard for proper behaviour which is characteristic of you, they are not entirely the reason I am here, as you well know, Sherlock. Why, precisely, am I angry?"

"How should I know what's going on inside your petty little mind," said Sherlock scornfully.

There was a dangerous pause. "Because you make it your business to know. Because you have no concept of privacy or of restraint," said Mycroft softly. "Now tell me exactly why I am punishing you, before I really lose my temper."

There was another pause, and then Sherlock admitted, "Because I broke my promise."

Mycroft breathed out slowly. "And so we get there at last. Yes, Sherlock, because you broke your promise to me, and that is _never_ to happen again, do you understand?" A red colour was rising in Mycroft's face, and the hand on Sherlock's backside clenched into a fist. "I explained to you quite clearly why it was crucial, both for my own position and for your safety, that you must never again misuse my security pass as you did at Baskerville, and you assured me - eventually - that you would not. Did you think that was all a joke, a trivial irrelevance for you to ignore as you wished? I ask astonishingly little of you, Sherlock, despite the near-constant aggravation you cause, but this one thing I did ask, and you disregarded it without a flicker of guilt! Do you completely lack all sense of self-preservation? I cannot keep rescuing you from the messes you create! And I will be even less able to help you if I end up losing my job because of your misbehaviour!"

Sherlock couldn’t contain his impatience any longer. "But I needed the pass!" he burst out, as if this was self-evidently sufficient justification for any action. "How else would I have got to speak to Rhodes? How else would I have solved the case?"

Mycroft shifted suddenly, tugging Sherlock’s torso forward on the sofa so that Sherlock’s bottom was positioned higher on Mycroft’s lap, his back's natural arch thrusting it upwards. Mycroft began once more to spank him, angrier than ever now. As Sherlock started to grunt and writhe vigorously over his lap, he ranted, "You still understand nothing, do you? You can still think of nothing but your own selfish needs! Do you have any inkling of the embarrassment and professional damage you have caused me, Sherlock, with your latest stunt? One major security breach on my own pass - caused by my own brother! - I can smooth over, though only thanks to my own standing and through much effort on my part. But another, mere days later? It is not to be tolerated!"

Mycroft was slapping so hard and fast now that his arm would have been aching badly if he not been too flooded with anger and adrenaline to notice it. He layered stinging smacks over the tops of Sherlock's thighs and Sherlock couldn't help crying out.

"And how do you think I'm going to feel when even my influence is not enough to keep you from being thrown in prison - or worse? And all for some idiotic action that is completely unnecessary other than to satisfy your arrogance and impatience because you refuse ever to wait for anyone else or to lower yourself by asking for assistance!"

Breathing hard, Mycroft halted in his efforts to punish every part of Sherlock's burning behind. When he spoke again, his voice was once again steely and dangerous.

"You will apologise to me, Sherlock, and you will vow never - _never_ \- to do this again. If you don't, I will make you hurt so much that you won't be able to sit down for a week. I will smack every inch of your backside until it burns like hell. Do you understand me? I will spank you here." He dealt a further series of sharp smacks to the fleshy mounds of Sherlock's buttocks, which were already bright red, making Sherlock squirm. "I will spank you here." More stinging slaps fell on the back of each of Sherlock's thighs, causing hisses of pain. "And finally I will spank you here." This time a volley of spanks were directed at the very tops of Sherlock's thighs, right across the crease where they met the round curves of his bottom, and Sherlock whimpered. "And then when I'm done, I will fetch your riding crop and repeat the entire process using _that_." Mycroft emphasised the last word with a hefty wallop across the centre of both buttocks.

"So, Sherlock, what is it to be? A full apology and an absolute commitment to never disobey me in this way again? Or do you need yet more persuasion?"

There was a long silence, while Sherlock apparently struggled with the conflict between his pride and his pain. 

Mycroft sighed, rolled his eyes wearily, and started slapping Sherlock's arse hard once again, letting his hand range over his brother’s bottom. Sherlock immediately found himself unable to avoid writhing, bucking and moaning again, but Mycroft’s hand kept falling no matter how much he squirmed. When Mycroft started spanking the crease under his arsecheeks again, slaps falling in quick succession one over the other, Sherlock finally caved.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I am!" 

Mycroft's hand stilled. Sherlock had his face pressed deep into the sofa cushions now, his dark curls falling around his face, those at the back of his neck damp from the sweat. The thin silk of the dressing gown was plastered against his muscled shoulders. 

"And?" Mycroft made the word long and precise.

Sherlock sniffed a little, turning his face sideways. Mycroft could see the faint streak of a tear on his cheek.

"And - and I won't do it again."

There was a beat, during which Mycroft's eyes bored into Sherlock's head, assessing the sincerity of the statement. Then Mycroft reached slowly out and drew the dressing gown back down over Sherlock's backside. He patted it, and could feel the heat of the skin radiating through the material. Sherlock winced at the touch.

"Yes, I don't think this particular memory is going to fade too fast," said Mycroft, satisfaction purring in his voice.

Finally - finally - he released Sherlock's wrists and lifted his left arm, removing the pressure from Sherlock's back. He unhooked his leg from around Sherlock's. Sherlock got up, awkwardly, his shoulders stiff from having been held in position, his whole backside burning. He stepped away from Mycroft immediately, moving uncomfortably across the room and turning his back on him. 

"Well, I must be going," said Mycroft calmly, smoothing his trousers as he stood and retrieving his umbrella from where it leant against the arm of a chair. "It's been...well, really quite a pleasure, I have to say."

He moved smoothly to the door, and was almost out of the room when he paused and said, "Oh, Sherlock? I'm certain I don't need to tell you this, but just to be quite clear - I won't hesitate to repeat this afternoon's events. If I need to."

Then he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

John got home shortly afterwards, having had the kind of afternoon which in a previous life he would have considered unnervingly odd, but which now seemed almost run of the mill (and that in itself, when he thought about it, might actually be more unnerving). He'd been picked up by "Anthea" in one of Mycroft's cars, failed to get anything out of her regarding the purpose of this latest abduction, gone on a long and meandering drive with, seemingly, no actual destination, and finally been dropped off at the pub down the road, where he'd had a quick pint because, well, why not, once he was there, before heading home. He found Sherlock lying on his front on the sofa, in his dressing gown. John frowned slightly in his direction. He was used to Sherlock lounging on the sofa, of course, but had never seen him lying that way up before. His head was squashed up against one end and his shins were propped awkwardly on the arm rest at the other end, feet sticking out. It didn't look comfortable.

"You okay?" he asked as he moved across the room, taking his coat off, and sank into his armchair. Sherlock shifted over onto his side, so that he was now facing away from John.

John rolled his eyes and picked up the newspaper from the nearby table. "So, how was your afternoon?" he asked, unfolding it. "Get up to anything interesting?"

Silence. John tilted his head at the paper, and told it in a falsely cheerful tone, "Yes John, it was great, thanks for asking! How was yours?" He tilted his head the other way. "Mine was all right, thanks Sherlock. Had a nice lunch with Bill. Afterwards your lunatic brother had me kidnapped again for no apparent reason, but on the whole, not bad."

He looked over the top of the newspaper at the sofa. The line of Sherlock's back remained rigid and unfriendly, and John sighed a little. Right then. A sulking Sherlock it was.

His phone buzzed suddenly in his pocket. He dug it out and read the new text.

_Be gentle with Sherlock. He's a little sore. MH_

John looked up again at Sherlock's prone figure. "Mycroft just texted me," he said, puzzled.

Sherlock jerked his head round, so that he was looking up at the ceiling over his shoulder. "What did he say?" he demanded.

John, who had been expecting the mention of Mycroft to be met with apathetic disdain, if any response at all, was somewhat taken aback by this reaction. "He says you're sore. What does that mean? Are you hurt?" Alarm bells ringing, John scanned Sherlock's body looking for injury. He was pretty sure that Mycroft's version of 'a little sore' could quite easily mean broken bones - or worse.

Sherlock turned his head away again. "I'm fine," he said, shortly.

John didn't feel one bit reassured. "Sherlock, what's happened?"

"Oh for heaven's sake don't start to fuss, John," snapped Sherlock. "I said I'm fine. Now why don't you go and make a cup of tea or something."

John paused, uncertain. "Do you want a cup of tea?"

"What? No, not really. I mean, yes, whatever you like."

John knew Sherlock was just trying to get rid of him, but went to the kitchen and put on the kettle anyway. He made two mugs of tea, carried them back into the living room, and had just set one down on a stack of books next to his armchair and was taking the other over to the sofa when a new thought struck him.

"Why would Mycroft warn me to 'be gentle', anyway? What does he think I'm going to be doing to you?" There was a pause, while Sherlock said nothing and John pursued his train of thought with alarm. "Does he know about...us?"

Sherlock's only answer was a snort, but it was all John needed to hear to have his fears instantly confirmed. He huffed an annoyed sigh.

"Of course he does, why would I even ask? Stupid me, thinking there might be any part of our lives where we're allowed a little actual privacy!" He half-shouted the last words, directing them in the vague direction of the ceiling as if Mycroft might be somehow looking down on them. Which, now that John thought about it, was not at all impossible. For all he knew, there could be cameras in here...

He was distracted from this disturbing idea by Sherlock, who at his last words had twitched slightly and now seemed to be drawing his dressing gown a little more tightly around him. John was reminded of the text that had started this whole conversation and of his concerns about what Mycroft had meant by 'sore'.

He perched on the edge of the sofa by Sherlock's legs.

"Sherlock, what's happened to you? Where are you hurt?"

Silence.

"Come on, Sherlock," he coaxed, reaching out to touch Sherlock's hip. Sherlock jerked away from him. A flicker of hurt crossed John's usually calm face, but he continued patiently.

"Look, I need you to let me know when you're hurt. Firstly because I'm a doctor, and doctors have to look after people when they're hurt; we can't help it, it's in our nature. And secondly because I'm your...your..." John struggled to locate a word to describe their relationship, and came up empty-handed, "...well, because we're us. And so I care, and I worry. And I'm sorry, but I can't help that either."

In a sudden movement, Sherlock rolled over, jostling John off the sofa as he did so. As he stood with a grimace, he spat brutally, "If you're looking for words to describe yourself with respect to me, how about 'suffocatingly overprotective'? Or 'incessantly nagging'? Or actually, why not just call yourself my nanny, since that seems to be the role you aspire to judging by your unbearable insistence on constantly fussing over me like an infant!"

He stuck his nose in the air and swept towards the door. For a second John stood very still, then he leapt after Sherlock and grabbed at him, catching the back of his dressing gown.

"You are _not_ just walking out on me after that, Sherlock Holmes! And especially not when you're clearly injured!"

"Let me _go_ , John!"

For a few brief moments they wrestled awkwardly, John refusing to let go of Sherlock and Sherlock trying to wrench free while also keeping the robe clutched around himself. And then the dressing gown yanked off in John's hand.

They both froze. Sherlock stared fixedly at the wall in front of him. John stared at Sherlock's back, or more specifically at the unmissable deep red shade that was spread across his bottom and half of his thighs. Some marks that looked rather like fingers were still visible on the flushed skin, but no welts or bruises, making it clear what implement - or lack of one - had been employed.

There was a long silence.

"What...What on earth...What the hell has been going on?" John managed to ask, taking a step backwards in his astonishment.

Sherlock huffed irritably. "Surely that much is obvious, even to you," he snapped. He turned and attempted to snatch the gown back from John, who held it out of reach, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, I suppose it is. Doesn't seem to have had much of an effect on your manners, though." He couldn't help it; a laugh was beginning to form in his chest. His lips twitched. Sherlock scowled and, giving up the attempt to grab the gown back off John, folded his arms and stood up very straight, apparently in an attempt to hold on to his dignity. It worked surprisingly well for a man who was standing completely naked in front of his fully clothed flatmate (boyfriend? Partner? _Nanny_?), mainly thanks to Sherlock's height and well-practised haughty expression.

"All the same, I can see why Mycroft thought it was worth a try," said John, unable to hold back his grin now. "I mean you are incredibly annoying." 

Sherlock frowned and started to speak, but John interrupted him, smirking broadly. “So, is this standard practice between you two then? Whenever you get really unbearable, Mycroft does us all a favour and puts you over his knee?!" 

Sherlock's face flushed. "Mycroft is an intolerable busybody. He had no right to interfere in my business." But John was too busy laughing to listen. 

Sherlock looked outraged as John doubled up with hilarity. "It's not funny, John!" 

"Oh but it is!" 

"I thought you 'cared about me', I thought you were concerned for my well-being," said Sherlock, trying to sound scornful of these earlier statements, but instead simply sounding indignant that John had apparently forgotten them so quickly.

"Sherlock, you got spanked!" said John, still grinning. "You didn't get beaten up by some thug, you got smacked on the bottom like a little boy. What do you want me to say?!"

Sherlock glowered and, finally giving in to the necessity to turn his back and bare the shameful mark of his punishment to John again, he spun round and marched out of the room. John took in the sight of that glowing behind disappearing down the corridor, and heard the bedroom door slam.

\---

John spent a couple of hours pottering about in the sitting room and kitchen. He did feel rather sorry for Sherlock, but at the same time couldn't deny that there'd been plenty of occasions when he would have loved to give Sherlock a good smack, and Sherlock's prickly rudeness in response to John's genuine concern had needled him more than it perhaps should have done. Reliving the sting of Sherlock's 'nanny' jibe - particularly hard to take when he was still feeling rather uncertain and insecure about their new relationship status - John couldn't help raising a mental glass to Mycroft for having pulled off such a feat; it certainly couldn't have been easy. At the same time, the kinder part of John was aware that Sherlock was suffering far more from the damage to his pride than to his backside, and probably wanted privacy more than anything else at this stage.

By the time he was ready to head to bed, he was feeling much more sympathetic. Sherlock was lying curled up on his side on the bed. At John's gentle, "How are you doing?" he responded by scrunching himself up even smaller. The sight of Sherlock's skinny body, now clad in pyjamas, huddled up on the covers, his spine visible along his curved back, his head a mass of tousled curls, made something go soft inside of John. He sat down on the end of the bed. 

"Come on, it's not so bad," he said. "A bit embarrassing, but you'll get over it." 

Sherlock evidently disagreed, because he flung himself abruptly upright and off the bed. John saw the tiny wince as the movement put pressure on his backside, and felt himself soften even more. As Sherlock tried to storm past him out of the room, he blocked the way, and grabbing hold of the man he embraced him tightly. 

"John, stop it," said Sherlock, arms straight against his sides, body stiff and unyielding. 

"No," said John. 

They stood there until Sherlock dropped his head a little to rest his chin on John's shoulder, and then finally let his body start to relax in John's arms. 

"Okay, come on. I've got some aloe vera gel in the bathroom somewhere. It'll help soothe the sting. And don't tell me you're fine," he continued, as Sherlock opened his mouth, "because I'm the doctor here, which means for once, I'm in charge." 

He left the room for a moment to find the gel, and came back just in time to block Sherlock's exit, the latter's escape having been delayed by him being torn between his instinctive resistance to John's idea, and the temptation of the cool, soothing gel.

"Don't need it," Sherlock insisted, trying to leave, but John simply pushed him firmly down onto the bed again on his front, then, ignoring Sherlock's outraged protests, pulled down his pyjama trousers, being careful to avoid dragging them across the uncomfortable flesh. Before Sherlock could spring up again, John squeezed a big dollop of gel into his hand and slathered it across Sherlock's left buttock. Sherlock let out an involuntary kind of sigh, and stayed down.

John might have presented it as a doctorly activity, but he thoroughly enjoyed kneeling on the bed beside Sherlock and smoothing the cool gel into the skin of Sherlock's arse. He could feel the heat from the reddened skin and made a mental note never to get on the wrong side of Mycroft. The punishment might seem a ridiculously childish one, but he had done a very thorough job of it.

As he spread gel across the very faint mark of fingers on the underside of one of Sherlock's arsecheeks, John couldn't help picturing the scene. He imagined Mycroft had looked as cool and collected as usual, barely breaking a sweat. He found the mental image of Sherlock sprawled across his brother's lap - bottom up, long limbs kicking - disturbingly arousing. He shifted slightly in an effort to conceal his growing erection, but he was pretty sure Sherlock was aware of it, because he moved his legs apart, just a bit, as if inviting John to think dirty thoughts. 

John took advantage of the greater access and, adding more gel to his fingers, ran them further round to the inside of Sherlock's left thigh. Sherlock hmmed pleasurably and spread his legs further. Telling himself that clearly he would be better able to ensure he had properly covered all the sore skin with the gel if he was positioned with easier access, John crawled over Sherlock's lower left leg and knelt between his knees.

He slid gel-covered hands up and down Sherlock's thighs, gradually working his way higher, until he was running along the crease under each buttock, where the skin looked particularly sore. Sherlock groaned, and the sound did nothing to ease John's erection, which was rock hard in his jeans now at the sight in front of him. Sherlock's legs were wide enough apart to spread his reddened buttocks and expose his hole, and John wanted nothing more than to touch. He was about to stroke gel between Sherlock's cheeks when a different idea came to him and instead he leaned in, pressed Sherlock's hot buttocks apart and licked right up the crack of his arse.

Sherlock let out a shocked cry and jolted forward, and John immediately retreated. "Sorry! Sorry. I know we haven't done that before, I should've checked - "

"No! No, you just - it was just a surprise, that's all. Do it again." Sherlock put his hands behind him and pulled his own cheeks apart, inviting John to repeat the action.

"Oh _God_ ," gasped John, his dick throbbing painfully. Sherlock, pink arse thrust up, long fingers spreading himself open, exposing himself obscenely, hungry for John's mouth on him. Jesus _Christ_.

John bent his head again and began rimming Sherlock in earnest, licking up his crack and round his hole, tonguing him while Sherlock moaned and bucked helplessly.

"John, oh fuck John, don't stop," groaned Sherlock, and when John cupped Sherlock's tight balls in one hand and slid the other under Sherlock's sweat-sheened thigh to wrap it around his erection, Sherlock made a noise he hadn't even known he was capable of.

The sensations were like nothing Sherlock had ever felt and it should have been terrifying, being overwhelmed like this, losing control, but instead he just wanted more, more, more. He shifted his fingers on his buttocks, tacky with a mixture of aloe vera gel and sweat, and squeezed harder; now that he was so aroused, the sting of his punished skin was transforming into pleasure, heightening the sensations. His hips rocked in involuntary thrusts, pressing forwards into John's firm grip and then backwards against the incredible ecstasy of John's tongue.

John kept going until he couldn't stand the constriction of his jeans any longer and let go of Sherlock's cock and balls to fumble his fly open, all the while keeping his mouth on Sherlock. He kissed and licked clumsily between Sherlock's cheeks as he shoved his pants down and palmed himself roughly.

"John. John, fuck me," panted Sherlock, voice hoarse.

 _Fuck._ John wanted to, so very badly, wanted to be buried deep in Sherlock, gripped in Sherlock's tight heat, oh god he wanted it. But Sherlock had never done this before, and John knew he was far too close, too desperate, to have anything like the control he would need, to be able to open Sherlock up with care and attention, to resist the animal urge to just shove in and thrust, brutally, no concern for anything but reaching his climax.

"Can't Sherlock. Not now. Can't do it properly now."

Sherlock huffed. "Don't _care_ , just do it, fuck me."

John tried to control his breathing. " _I_ care, Sherlock. Not now. Another time, I promise, another time." He pushed at Sherlock, trying to roll him. "Turn over."

Sherlock turned, and John crawled up his body to press his mouth against Sherlock's. They kissed, hard and messy, hips rolling against each other, John twisting his fingers into Sherlock's damp curls.

John pulled away just far enough to reach for the drawer in the bedside table, one hand still buried in Sherlock's hair. He managed to dig out the lube with the tips of his fingers. "Let's do this instead." He slicked lube over himself, trying not to touch too firmly; he felt like a bomb, primed and about to explode. With the other hand he gripped Sherlock's erection and Sherlock threw his head back and moaned.

John licked his lips. "Cross your legs."

Sherlock wasn't sure where John was going with this but was too far gone to question it. He crossed his legs and a moment later John had positioned himself at the top of Sherlock's tightly pressed thighs and had pushed between them.

John only lasted eight or nine thrusts, but he made them count, angling himself to press his cock along Sherlock's perineum with every move and matching each pistoning of his hips with a rough pull on Sherlock's hard length. His hand only faltered when his orgasm hit him and he let out a yell as he came, balls pressed right up against Sherlock's thighs, tip of his cock between Sherlock's buttocks. Sherlock felt the hot wetness as John came all over his arse and that was it for him too; with a shout loud enough to wake half the street, let alone Mrs Hudson downstairs, he spilled over his stomach and John's hand.

\---

"That - That was fucking amazing," said John, when he had got his breath back enough to form words again. He rolled heavily off Sherlock who didn't move, simply lay sprawled among the wrecked bedding. He looked unbelievably debauched, covered in sweat and semen, hair wild, eyes closed, chest heaving. John grinned like a lunatic. He could get used to this sight. "Maybe Mycroft should come over more often if this is the result."

Sherlock's eyes flew open and he glared, making John laugh. "Dear _God_ , John, what are you thinking mentioning my brother's name within five minutes of an orgasm? Or within an hour of it. Or _ever_."

"Okay, sorry, sorry! Won't happen again."

Sherlock gave a stern nod which was slightly undermined by his current appearance, and John smothered another giggle by reaching down and pulling him into a kiss.

They snogged lazily for a few minutes and then John broke away to say "How's your arse though? Okay?" He slid a hand down to Sherlock's backside and rubbed gently. The skin still felt a little warm.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's fine, as you know perfectly well; you just want an excuse to grope me again."

"Oi!" John gave Sherlock a light slap, and was surprised when Sherlock made a little 'mmm' noise which sounded a lot like enjoyment. "Oh, do you like this now?!" He slapped gently again.

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered shut. "Well, it's very different when you do it." Then his eyes opened again abruptly, and John saw a familiar spark of intrigued curiosity. "And it's very interesting how the pain, which originally was wholly unpleasant, became distinctly pleasurable once it was placed in a sexual context." His gaze drifted slightly and John could almost see the new experiments being concocted in his mind.

For once, he really did not object one bit.

He rolled them so that Sherlock was on top of him, put both hands on Sherlock's arse and kissed him deeply.

"Mm," he said, nosing along Sherlock's jaw and smiling. "That _is_ interesting."


End file.
